


the day I stop loving you is the day we die.

by boksoongah



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, Read at Your Own Risk, alice says some harsh shit about gay people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boksoongah/pseuds/boksoongah
Summary: Betty and Veronica are not the sort of couple who will let their love be shadowed by a mother's wrath. For a friend, on her birthday.





	the day I stop loving you is the day we die.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shylien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shylien/gifts).



Blue is the color Betty thinks of when she remembers the day she first met Veronica Lodge. She was sitting with Archie, Archie Andrews, best-friend-since-forever Archie in a booth at Pop’s that day. Nothing special. Just catching up over milkshakes.

Why blue? Betty can think of a hundred different reasons. She'd picked blue earrings to wear that morning, a delicate shade of robin’s-egg that complemented her hair nicely (she heard in her mother’s voice). Her pills that morning were blue, too.

Archie’s sweater, when he’d met her in the evening, was blue, a deep faded color that matched the jeans he always wore. And when they left school that day, Betty couldn't help but notice an old Bug, the same late summer-blue as the sky above them, that lingered near Archie before driving, slowly, away.

But it isn't for that that Betty remembers blue that day. She knows.

She had been talking to Archie. They were old friends and it felt comfortable to catch up with him over milkshakes, like they always used to. It wasn't like it used to be, though. He'd changed. Gotten taller. Older. Something else was different about him, too. Something Betty couldn't quite place.

He's becoming a man now, she'd thought. And: If he dates me, if I can get him to date me, it'll show I'm good enough. Good enough for what? She’d heard that in her mother’s voice.

Nothing. Good enough for nothing. Her mother wasn't there that day. She didn't have to be good enough.

And yet - good enough or not - she'd found herself nervous, for the first time, and she remembered how her hands had tightened on the tablecloth, how her heart had raced and her throat gone dry. You can do this, Betty, she'd told herself. It's not hard. Tell him you like him. Tell him you want to go out with him.

Why was it so hard to ask him that, after all? Betty sees now how obvious it is - you aren't supposed to be nervous around the person you like, not that way. Not in a way that hurts. But she’d psyched herself up for it anyway. The same way she psyched herself up to take that day’s dose, or to listen to one of her mother’s lectures.

Her mother would have told her: Have the perfect words ready, Elizabeth. Even if he isn't the perfect man, you need to be better than he is.

Yes, Mother, Betty had thought. I know what to say, Mother. I'll say: Archie, I've been thinking about us, and how it's time we move on. Try something different. After all, we aren't children any more. Isn't this what you do when you stop being children?

No, that wasn't right. Archie, I've been thinking about us, and how it's time we talked about our feelings. Yes, our feelings. That's right - let Archie speak too. We're in this together, after all.

And then, when the time was right: Archie, I'm in love with you.

She liked to think her mother would have been proud, then. Or - satisfied, at least. Alice Cooper was never one to be proud of her children; it made them too relaxed. Too ready to make a mistake. To be less than perfect.

If only her mother knew who she was dating now, it wouldn't have mattered.

In any case, it didn't matter then, either.

She had waited for a moment when she was certain he was listening. She'd taken a deep breath. And then, just when she was about to cut it all loose, to confess -

Then there was Veronica.

Archie saw her first. Betty saw his eyes flicker over her shoulder and stay, and she felt the pang in her stomach and was about to snap at him for not listening, but then she turned and saw her too. Betty realizes now that she was a hypocrite for being angry at Archie then, for him forgetting that they'd been talking (though, she believes, she was still right to be angry). Because seeing Veronica made Betty forget what she was about to say, too.

That's for the best, she sees now, she's glad Veronica walked in just then in all her glory, that Betty became suddenly lost in her flashing dark eyes and perfect brows and knowing smile. Like everything else about her, Betty remembers this moment of her with perfect clarity, and cherishes it. But it is important, too. What if she had told Archie how she'd felt (she thought) that day? What if it were Archie she had promised herself to later in the semester and Archie who'd been her second first kiss (middle school firsts don't count), and, one day, Archie she'd marry? It hurts to think of the chance she might have missed that way.

But she didn't. That moment, the one she had meant for Archie, became Veronica’s instead. And she was left staring at her face and eyes and lips, memorizing without meaning to every single thing about her, and this is why when she thinks back to that day, she remembers blue: because the dreamy dim light from the windows was reflected in Veronica’s eyes and hair and skin, and her coat became the deep velvety sapphire of a night sky, and Betty could not help but think of the hazy twilight outside, and Veronica caught her looking and staring and smiled, and it was like the stars had come out.

This is what Betty likes to think: Veronica’s eyes are not black; they reflect every color in calm dark shades, and that night, the shadow-blue of the quiet dusk outside is what Betty saw. So now, when she thinks of that day, she thinks blue. Not robins-egg blue, not tired dusty blue like Archie’s sweater: the blue of night, the blue of an endless deep sea. And it's fitting, because now, this is Veronica to her, even though then, she saw only the shallowest parts of her: Veronica is the sky and the sea, endless and quiet and strong and unbreakable. The more Betty looks, the more she loves her.

Then, though, she thought nothing of that. All she knew was that Archie was smiling up at this beautiful dark-haired mystery girl, and the girl was smiling back, and all of a sudden, jealousy bloomed in Betty Cooper’s stomach, hot and hungry, the way it felt when she'd accidentally overdosed, once. And she was right: she was jealous. She had only been wrong about who that jealousy was for.

\--

Real love is not for fanciful poetry and cliched comparisons, though. Real love is sweating through school and cheerleading practice all day, every day for weeks after Betty meets Veronica, and continuing to struggle with her feelings for Archie when she doesn't even know it's really Veronica she’s falling for (can you blame her, when all she knows is she hates seeing them kiss after the dance?). Betty is supposed to be more than the average teenager, she reminds herself, and it's childish to moon over crushes and scribble names in notebooks, even though she does - not that she's got a crush on Veronica. She's writing her name so she doesn't forget it, because it would be embarrassing to forget her name.

Real love isn't for thinking about kisses and wondering how Archie compares to Veronica. Real love isn't for wondering whether his lips would be as soft or if he'd be as good with his tongue or if -

“Betty!” Over the potatoes Betty made for dinner that night, her mother is glaring again. She snaps to attention. Perfect daughter, she reminds herself. Perfect daughter.

This is also not real love: the way her mother looks at her, piercing gaze, and even though her eyes are blue Betty thinks Veronica’s have infinitely more depth, more color to them. More kindness, she thinks. Kindness makes dark eyes bluer than any blue she could possibly find in her pills that evening, the same shade she finds in Mother’s knowing sneer now.

“Betty, dear,” says Mother in her sweetest voice, “what was I saying just now?”

“Well - ” Dammit. Betty hadn't been paying attention. They both know that.

Her mother sighs - and it's impressive, really, how much loving concern Alice Cooper can put into a single sigh, even though Betty knows, without looking, that her eyes are hard and cold and angry. The opposite of the sky, she thinks. “Betty,” she says. “You really can't forget to take your Adderall. It makes you too - ” She pauses, and the space between, the cold silence, makes Betty want to scream. “Too distracted,” she finishes, with a smile that isn't a smile at all, that reaches her lips, and no further.

Betty’s hands fist in the tablecloth. “I'm sorry, Mother,” she says, careful not to let Mother see her white knuckles.

“Look at me,” says Alice Cooper, quietly.

She does, careful not to flinch. Mother’s eyes are icy. The color of lips that have lost their blood to the cold, of antiseptic, of lapis lazuli, stone without depth, beautiful and frightening at the same time.

“You are getting too distracted, Elizabeth,” she says, speaking steadily, so each word falls like a stone, sinks to the bottom of the cold potatoes on their plates. “Ever since you met that Lodge girl. I've seen it.”

“Yes, Mother,” replied Betty, because she has to.

“You talk too much about her,” says Mother. “She's on your mind too much. Her and your friends.” She sighs again. “I don't want you to think about those people so often, Elizabeth. Thinking about people is what got your dear sister in trouble.”

Betty nods.

“If she hadn't thought so much about that Blossom boy,” her mother says, “she wouldn't have fallen in love with him. And then - well, then Polly would still be with us, wouldn't she?”

She smiles - no, simpers - at Betty. Don't you agree? her smile says. You must, Betty. You simply have to.

“Yes, Mother,” Betty breathes.

“Good. I'm glad you understand,” Alice says, and, just like that, the icy look in her eyes goes away and she takes a forkful of potatoes and savors it, and Betty, not knowing what else to do, watches helplessly. “Oh, Elizabeth, these potatoes are wonderful! Did you use the new masher?”

Later, it turns out her mother is right. Thinking about people too much, Betty finds out, really does make you fall in love with them. Or maybe she would have fallen for Veronica regardless.

That night, though, she thinks none of this. That night, she is not even angry at her mother, because she is too busy realizing something: she has been thinking about Veronica lately. A lot. Quite a bit. Perhaps too much: of their conversations together, of the way Veronica looks in practice and the way she laughs, of the sound of her voice and her smile and the kiss -

Mother is right. She thinks too much. But as she goes to sleep that night, and when she wakes up the next morning, too, Betty cannot help but wonder what real love is really like, and if it tastes at all like Veronica Lodge.

\--

Betty has worked out a routine with Veronica. It lasts them through the fall, into winter, up until one cool, gloomy night during finals week. It's the kind of night when it's just become routine for Betty to go to Veronica’s house and study under piles of blankets until ten o’clock - then they put their books down and, giggling, do something Betty’s mother absolutely would not approve of, like pulling up 80’s music videos to make fun of or playing video games. Tonight, it's video games. Veronica has been itching to try out a new driving simulator, so tonight, they finally do.

It's easy to forget that Betty has only known Veronica since the beginning of this year, because it's easy to forget when everything happens so fast: what began as one night at Pop’s has blurred into day after day of Veronica - and, for the first time since Polly left, Betty feels like she's changing. No, not just changing. Change happens all the time, slowly, she thinks quietly, looking at Veronica, whose face is tight, focused, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Change happens even when we don't notice it. But this, this is something Betty can't help but notice. Because in the hours and hours they have spent talking and laughing and fooling around together, Betty has learned so much - not about Veronica, but about herself. That sometimes she likes listening to all the wrong sorts of music - not classical, like Betty’s mother would approve of, unless classic rock counts, and Betty is fairly certain it doesn't. That Veronica doesn't mind if Betty eats too much junk food with too few napkins, and talks while she's chewing, the way Mother chides her for doing at home. That Betty doesn't mind staying up past curfew if it means she gets to make stupid late-night jokes and laugh about it with Veronica. It's - it's like she's...blooming. Yeah. Blooming.

That must be why she likes being around her so much, thinks Betty, sneaking a glance at Veronica, who's leaning forward, dark brows drawn together, dark eyes wide, lips softly parted and limned in ghostly light from the television. Because all her life, she's been so used to fulfilling Mother’s expectations, being the perfect daughter she wants. But Veronica? Veronica just likes her for who she is.

A warm feeling spreads through her at that thought. She looks again at Veronica - whose face is blue in the light from the television - and studies her face again. They'd been talking earlier, about Archie and Cheryl and how they didn't need an excuse to make out in the middle of a dance, they were straight, but now Veronica is completely absorbed in her game, tongue between her teeth, frowning intensely, so focused she hadn't noticed that the popcorn bowl in her lap is spilling over and there's kernels on the bare skin her stomach, where her tank top has slipped up -

Betty blushes instantly and looks away.

This is the only problem between the two of them - the one Veronica doesn't know about. Mother was right. Betty thinks too much about Veronica. Is it in a bad way? She doesn't know. She's worried over it all semester. She knows what she should be doing - talking to Kevin, of course - but she can't bring herself to do that. More likely than not, she tells herself, it's just some strange obsession. A passing fancy. She'll get over it.

But she looks again at Veronica, and she can't help but stare at the way her hips curve up to meet her waist and how delicate the skin there looks. Once, at practice, they'd been doing a maneuver together and Betty had had to hold Veronica by the waist - they were dancing together, like a couple, Veronica had said - and somehow they'd done it completely wrong and ended up falling over with Betty on top of Veronica on the floor. Betty remembers the sound of Veronica’s laughter, the sweet smell of her hair, the softness of her skin. She hadn't stopped thinking about that for nights. Especially the nights. And then there was the kiss -

Veronica looks up at the same time Betty does, and their eyes meet. Oh no, thinks Betty, oh no oh no oh no, and the blush on her face spreads like wildfire. But it's too late. Veronica smiles at her and raises her eyebrow, and Betty can imagine her saying, What's up with you today, Betts?

“Ronnie,” she blurts out before she can say something even stupider. “Um. I have a question. About your waist. No, I mean - I mean, I - ” What on earth is she thinking? And then she does say something even stupider.

“I’m in love with Archie,” she says.

Veronica starts, like she was dreaming for a moment, and Betty just woke her up. “Oh,” she says, and the smile fades from her lips. “Oh. That's...what you wanted to say?”

No. “Yes,” Betty blusters. Her face is flaming and, worse, her gut is twisting. That isn't what she meant to say at all. “Yeah, that's all.”

“Oh,” says Veronica again. She sets the game controller down. For a moment, her face is carefully controlled. “You're sure?”

Betty nods furiously. Her fingernails dig deep into her palms. This is right, she tells herself. Tell her you're in love with Archie and you'll stop having bad thoughts.

“Okay,” says Veronica, and the smile is back again, but somehow Betty sees something different in it, in the way the blue light reflects in her eyes now: the depths are gone, her gaze is flat, and she blinks and looks away and the moment is gone. “Okay. So...is there anything else you wanted to do?”

“Yes,” Betty tells her, and then, without thinking, she reaches out to pull Veronica’s tank top down, over that offending bare patch of skin that Betty is absolutely not looking at, no sirree. Veronica looks down at Betty’s hand and then back up at her. Her expression’s funny.

“Is...something wrong, Betty?” she says, sounding wrong, off somehow.

Betty snatches her hand away. “Why would anything be wrong?” she says, and knows instantly that her voice has given her away: she's too shrill. Too breathless. Fuck, she thinks, and crosses her arms and her legs and looks away, at anything but Veronica. She's getting too anxious. Mother would want her to take her pills now.

Veronica reaches forward and takes Betty’s hand, gently, the same one that she'd grabbed Veronica’s top with. The touch sets Betty’s skin on fire. “Okay,” says Veronica softly. “That's okay, Betts. I just...wanted to make sure.”

At that, Betty stiffens. Veronica doesn’t usually call her that, not unless she’s really worried. She doesn’t want Veronica’s concern right now. She doesn’t want her hand, soft, and the way Veronica speaks, like Betty might break at any moment. She doesn’t want it.

What does she want, then?

Betty takes a deep breath and turns her hand over so Veronica’s fingers slip into her palm, and she grabs those fingers and holds tight, so she won’t pull away. Veronica does nothing. She hasn’t turned away yet, and Betty doesn’t dare look at her face.

But she hears, anyway, enough to know what Veronica is thinking - a quiet sharp intake of breath, and Betty squeezes her eyes shut. She won’t look. She will not.

“I lied,” she says. “I’m not in love with Archie.”

“Okay...?” Veronica doesn’t understand, that much is clear. It would be better if she never does, Betty thinks, and her fingers tighten involuntarily on Veronica’s.

“I’m not - I mean - I’ve never been in love before,” she blusters. “So maybe I wouldn’t know but - I mean - that is - ”

She trails off and her throat catches, and she feels a sudden quiet heat building up inside her: she is frustrated. She wants to cry. She can’t even get the words out.

She can hear Mother, egging her on: Don’t be shy now, Elizabeth. Don’t be timid. Say what you need to say, and say it right, say it properly, or don’t speak at all.

She opens her eyes. Veronica is staring at her and the depths in her eyes are back, the endless sea, the starlight reflected in the black that isn’t really black, but deep blue and gold and brown and every other color too, every color in this room and outside, all of them together but so dark it scares Betty. It scares her to know that she doesn’t know everything about Veronica yet, that there’s still so much in her sky that Betty doesn’t understand yet.

“What are you trying to say?” says Veronica, softly.

Betty swallows. She can’t, she tells herself, she can’t, and from somewhere in the depths rises a taunting voice. Weak, timid Betty, it sneers with her mother’s voice. Little Elizabeth, who needs Adderall to get through her days in one piece. Who’ll end up just like her sister Polly if she isn’t careful.

Betty pushes that voice away. “You asked if there was anything else I wanted to do,” she says thickly, forcing herself to look at Veronica again, into those eyes, into that deep dark sea. The heat still rises in her throat. She does want something. She’s sure of it.

Veronica nods, but she’s still not understanding.

“I - ” Betty looks down at their hands. The burning coalesces there, a hidden flame beneath her skin where Veronica’s fingers have twined with her own. And in her chest, in her heart. And - other places.

This happened before. When Veronica kissed her at practice. When they fell, together.

“I do,” she says, thinking of those times, of the shameful yet delicious way she can’t help but return to them in her head, over and over. “I do,” she says, and looks into Veronica’s eyes, the endless ocean, the night sky - her night sky. Her best friend, Veronica. And as she thinks it the heat in her chest becomes a comfortable quiet warmth that spreads through her body and sends tingles, everywhere.

She knows what she wants to do. Her other hand moves to cup Veronica’s cheek, and before she can think again and stop herself, she leans forward.

And she kisses her.

This time is different from how she remembers it. In practice, Veronica had caught her by surprise: they were running on the adrenaline high of their tryout together, and her mouth had tasted electric, her lips soft and firm at the same time. Now, it is Betty who catches Veronica by surprise, and she hears Veronica make a little noise as she kisses her, and her lips are closed this time, but in a moment her mouth opens and Betty tastes her, really tastes her: she tastes like warmth and salt and earth and a little sweet, and it isn't at all what Betty expected but she keeps kissing her anyway because there's something intoxicating in the way their lips move together and the incredible softness of Veronica’s mouth, and she finds she likes the way Veronica tastes, she doesn't want to stop, loves it actually -

Veronica makes a choking noise, and suddenly they aren't kissing any more. Veronica pulls back quickly and looks at Betty, and there's something wrong, terribly wrong, in the way she's looking at her.

“Betty,” she says slowly, “what are you - ”

Oh, no. She's gotten it all wrong. Face burning, Betty says, “I'm sorry,” and without waiting for a reply, pushes herself clumsily off the bed and onto her feet. The kiss rumpled her sweater; she adjusts it quickly, then dares a glance back at Veronica again, who's watching her with wide eyes. She looks obscenely beautiful. “I'm sorry,” says Betty again. And then she turns and runs from the room.

Behind her, she hears Veronica call her name. She doesn't stop. The heat has returned to her face and this time it isn't the good kind, it prickles and sparks and clogs her throat, and then without warning tears well up in her eyes and she lets out a sob. Her shoes are by the door. She shoves her feet into them and fumbles with the door handle, stumbling out into the cool night air. She raises her face to the starlit sky and lets the tears run down her face, not bothering to stop them, not moving at all.

She wipes a hand across her mouth. She can still taste Veronica on her lips, a ghostly afterimage that lingers, tantalizing, on her tongue. Is that what it tastes like to end a friendship? She wipes her mouth once more, then her eyes. And as she starts down the street, she can't stop thinking about the warmth of Veronica’s body against hers. How right it felt to kiss her.

She'll never have this again, she thinks as she turns down the next street. Their friendship will never be the same, if there's a friendship at all after tonight. And she can never undo it. She'll never be perfect again.

Yet somehow, she decides that night, lying on her bed and staring up at the ceiling - which is black, just black, no color at all to it - somehow she doesn't regret having been imperfect for this one night. If only it didn't have to be for just one night.

 

In the morning, she doesn't want to go to school. Veronica will be there, and she doesn't want Veronica to see her.

It's ironic, because seeing Veronica is all she's thought about since last night. Explaining herself. Making up. But the more she thinks about, the more the shame of facing her best friend - ex-best friend, she reminds herself - makes her want to curl up into a ball and never come out again.

Maybe Mother was right. Maybe she's a coward after all.

Still, she forces herself to get up. To put on clothes, to collect her bag of that day’s homework. She pauses in the mirror to look at herself. Her blonde hair is lank with sweat; her eyes have bags under them. She sighs and does her best to clean up. If she'd going to end her friendship with Veronica today, she might as well look good, at least.

At school, though, she finds Veronica laughing with Archie and Jughead - like last night didn't happen at all. It's almost, Betty thinks with a pang in her chest, almost insulting. Like Betty doesn't matter to Veronica. Like a kiss between them means nothing to her.

Then Veronica turns and catches sight of Betty. Her smile fades and Betty’s heart drops. Now she remembers, she thinks.

Veronica straightens and starts moving toward Betty, and part of Betty screams run, hide while you still can, but she is frozen, unable to move. She finds herself studying the set of Veronica’s jaw, the way her lips (she tries not to think of the kiss last night) are pressed into a thin line, how her brows are drawn into a frown, and her eyes - those dreamboat eyes - are underlined by dark circles; Betty guesses she isn't the only one who missed sleep last night. At least Veronica doesn't look angry. Betty's heart flutters - maybe she was wrong last night. Maybe it isn't as bad as she thought.

Veronica reaches her and says, “Betty,” at the same time that Betty says, “Veronica, I'm sorry - ”

She can't do it. She can't say, I'm sorry for kissing you. She looks over Veronica’s shoulder - Archie and Jughead are watching, curious - and then Veronica touches her wrist, a gentle, friendly touch, Betty reminds herself, and says, “You left your homework with me yesterday, Betts.”

Betty gives a start. That's right. She ran out so quickly, she didn't even take her homework with her. She looks guiltily at Veronica, whose gaze is serious.

“I'm sorry,” she says again, and this time she means it. “I..forgot.”

That's horribly inadequate, of course, but Veronica just tips her head and smiles a little at that. “I know,” she says. “That's why I brought it with me today. I can hand it in for you, if you like.”

A sinking feeling fills Betty’s stomach. Here she is, running around and kissing her best friend when she doesn't want it, and Veronica is still doing this for her? Betty doesn't deserve her.

“Listen,” says Veronica quietly. “Could we talk? Before practice today?”

Betty looks at her incredulously. She wants to talk? She doesn't hate Betty for this already?

“Sure,” she finds herself saying. The word feels thick in her mouth. Like she's stumbling over her tongue to say it. But Veronica just smiles at that, too. “Sure, we can talk. Before practice.”

What exactly has she gotten herself into? Veronica just gives her another brush on the wrist, another glance - her face is unreadable - and turns away.

“Thanks, Betts,” she says. She sounds every bit as tired as Betty feels. She really does wonder how much sleep Veronica got last night - and, if she missed any, why she couldn't sleep. It makes Betty’s stomach twist with guilt - and, somehow, a thrill of hope too.

Despite her lack of sleep, Betty finds herself uncomfortably aware of everything that day. She takes a dose at lunch in an effort to avoid her jitters from taking over, but it does nothing to help. The anxiety that buzzes in her chest turns into mounting panic, and she can hear her mother again, telling her this is what she deserves: she did something wrong, and now she's paying for it. Spending so much time around the Lodge girl, after all, could only lead to trouble.

Betty doesn't like the things her mother says. Especially when they're right.

She forces herself to wait in the locker room for Veronica. They each have a free period before practice today, so no one else is here. She sits on a bench and counts every minute on the clock that she spends alone. Ten pass, and she starts to wonder, with a mixture of relief and shame - and something sharper, more painful - if Veronica isn't going to show up after all.

But after the eleventh minute passes, Betty hears tentative footsteps, and then, sounding soft, a little scared: “Betty?”

Betty has to bite back a nervous laugh. Veronica’s scared? It's Betty who should be scared shitless right now.

“I'm here,” she says. And then, because she's been thinking of nothing else for the past four hours: “What did you want to talk about?”

Veronica is standing behind her, in front of the bench now. Betty knows, but doesn't look. After a long, long moment, Veronica says quietly, “I think you know.”

Betty's breath hitches in her chest. Of course she does. She just doesn't want to admit it.

“I liked kissing you, you know,” says Veronica.

Betty freezes. What? No, that can’t be right. Suddenly she feels hot - the same heat she felt last night, in her cheeks and chest and, yes, other places too. She wraps her arms around herself - the uniform she’s wearing makes her feel safer, somehow - and dares a quick glance up at Veronica. There’s something quietly powerful in the other girl’s gaze that keeps her from looking away.

“Are you surprised?” says Veronica, and for all that her gaze is serious, her voice is unsteady. “Because so am I. I wasn’t prepared for that, you know.”

Her eyes reflect colors again - the slate-gray of the lockers, in stark contrast to the blue of her uniform. Betty’s ears are ringing.

“I’m sorry for kissing you,” she manages, and, to her confusion, Veronica laughs.

“Why?” she says. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you all semester. Since that time at practice.” The words register with a jolt. Veronica takes a shy step forward and her hand comes to rest on Betty’s shoulder, and without thinking Betty reaches up to fold her hand over Veronica’s fingers, just like last night. Their eyes meet.

“I’m sorry, too,” says Veronica. She’s biting her lip; after a moment she glances away again. “I didn’t mean to...upset you. I didn’t know how to react. But - ”

“But?” interrupts Betty. Veronica looks back at her again. Her eyes are no longer gray, but something delicate and watery, not quite blue, uncertain.

“But I don’t think you’ve thought this through,” she says softly. “I think you were kissing me because you aren’t sure how you feel. About girls. And I’m here, and you trust me - ”

Betty draws back as if she’s been burned.

“I’m sorry,” says Veronica, taking a step back, too, and Betty hears the pleading in her voice and hates it too. “I’m not trying to say it means nothing to you, but - ”

“No,” says Betty vehemently. She takes a deep breath, forces herself to relax. “No, Veronica, I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you.”

To finally admit it sends a thrill down her spine, and as she looks into Veronica’s eyes she sees the clouds disappear and the dark clear blue return, and she thinks again: my Veronica, my night sky, my best friend, my love.

Veronica smiles now. But there’s still something uncertain in her.

“Betty,” she says, “I know that, but - ”

“I kissed you because I wanted you,” interrupts Betty, rising from the bench. Something hot and solid rises in her, and she’s suddenly brave, braver than she’s ever been before. “I want you, Veronica. Don’t you get that? It doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or not,” and she almost stops because Veronica’s eyes are wide and she thinks she might be speaking too loudly, but continues anyway. “You’re my best friend. You’re my - ” She laughs. “If soulmates exist, Veronica, then hell, you’re mine, all right? I love you.” She stumbles a little on the last word, but it feels so true, so right. She holds Veronica’s gaze defiantly. A night sky with no stars, everything she loves and more.

And Veronica just stares at her.

Betty lifts her chin. “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?” she says. “That I don’t know my own feelings?”

Veronica looks away. Her brows lower. “No,” she says. “I’m not. I’m just not sure - ”

Betty takes a step forward. “Well I am,” she says, and there’s something powerful in her now, so strong it surprises her. “I’m sure. So it’s okay if you aren’t.” She takes a deep breath. “I love you, Veronica Rachel Lodge, take it or leave it.”

 

For the first time Veronica looks at her - really looks, not flinching, not like she’s been looking at her all day. And she laughs.

“I know,” she says. “I know, and I - I love you too, Betty.” Her gaze doesn’t falter, and the words send an electric thrill down Betty’s spine. “But - ” She looks down. “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”

Betty shakes her head. “You could never hurt me,” she says. Her voice cracks a little. “I told you: I love you.”

“People who love each other can hurt each other, too,” says Veronica, looking at Betty again; Betty hates how steady her voice is now. “Even when they don’t mean it. I’ve seen it.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Betty repeats.

Veronica smiles, but it’s sad, quiet. “What if I do?” she says.

Betty shakes her head.

“What if you only think I’ll make you happy?” says Veronica, and her voice breaks. “What if I end up making you unhappy instead? What if I fail you?” Her voice becomes quicker, urgent. “I know you want this, but what if it isn’t what you need, and - ”

“Then it would be worth it,” says Betty stubbornly. She crosses her arms and feels tears prickling in her eyes, doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “I want this,” she says, and then, softer, “How can you tell me this isn’t what I need when we haven’t even tried it yet?”

Veronica falls silent. Her eyes meet Betty’s again. Still uncertain.

“I promise,” Betty says, softer, “I’ll tell you if you hurt me. And you won’t. But if you do,” she amends quickly, “I will tell you. Okay?” She holds out her hand. “Can we try?”

Veronica doesn’t take Betty’s hand. She chews her lip and doesn’t drop her gaze, and Betty doesn’t know how to make it any clearer that it’s okay, she’s okay with this, she wants it more than anything, just to be with her, her best friend that she loves, too.

“Okay,” she says at last. “We can try.”

She takes Betty’s hand in one of her own, then the other, and she looks up into Betty’s face and smiles: a little soft, a little uncertain, but to Betty it’s like seeing the stars come out, all over again.

Betty’s head spins. She feels dazzled, like she’s staring into the sun. But she smiles back, and when Veronica draws her close and gives her a gentle kiss, she feels like she can breathe again, like she’s floating in the waves of a deep, dark sea, calm, at peace.

That day, Betty finds out that the dark isn’t so scary, after all.

\--

They love each other in silence until spring, and in that time Betty learns so much: that Veronica likes lilies better than roses; that even though she snores, it’s better to sleep with her than alone; that she laughs hardest when Betty tickles her behind her ears, and that, sometimes, it’s okay to not take her pills, because Veronica calms her down better than any Adderall ever could. On Sundays, they drift through stores together and talk without end, about Archie, about school, about their favorite things. On those days, Betty can’t help but notice a beautiful white wedding dress in the window of her favorite shop, and catches herself blushing every time she thinks of her and Veronica wearing that dress, together, complete with matching rings.

During the week, they keep going to Veronica’s house to do homework together, only now, when they finish playing video games together, Veronica pulls Betty close and they kiss - sometimes awkward, sometimes shy, but Betty finds she loves it no matter what. In the darkness, they discover how to touch each other.

Those are the evenings Betty goes home with her face glowing. But when her mother pauses in the middle of cooking pasta and asks, “What’s making you so happy, Elizabeth, dear?” she finds herself tongue-tied, unable to tell her that it’s her best friend, that they’re in love, and it isn’t Archie she’s talking about.

Though Veronica says nothing about it, Betty knows it is on her mind, too. It’s on both of theirs. She just hasn’t found the nerve to talk about it.

One day, when they’re huddled together on Veronica’s bed, sipping mugs of hot chocolate and listening to the quiet spring rain, Betty says, “Does your mom know?”

Veronica looks down at her, and her fingers pause in Betty’s hair. She says, “What?”

“Does your mom know,” says Betty again. She twists to look up at Veronica. “About us.” She gestures - at the tangle of their legs, the spray of red lilies in the windowsill, the sweater Betty brought wrapped around Veronica’s shoulders.

Veronica is silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “But I think if she did, she’d be fine with it. Why?” She frowns down at Betty. “Are you worried about it?”

Betty isn’t sure. No, it isn’t really what she’s worried about - it’s everyone, she thinks, everyone in the world knowing when Betty isn’t sure herself if she wants them to know. Not just Veronica’s mom. Archie and Juggie too. Everyone at school.

Veronica says quietly, “If you’re worried about it, I can tell her, you know.”

Betty shakes her head. “It’s not just that,” she says. “How do we tell people?”

Veronica rolls her eyes. “We don’t have to tell people, Betts,” she says, and smiles at Betty’s pout. “It’s not their business. They can wonder if they like.”

But Betty does have to tell people. At least, she wants to. Because every time she sees Archie and Cheryl together, making out in the hallways, a pang of envy lances through her and she finds herself wishing she could do that with Veronica, not just stolen kisses in the privacy of their room.

And at home, when her mother asks with a knowing smile if Betty’s got her eye on anyone for prom that year, Betty finds herself caught between admitting the truth and making someone up, so she can be honest about being in love without being honest about who it is. But the very thought of that - of pretending it isn’t Veronica, of hiding the fact that she’s in love with someone so beautiful, someone who deserves to be talked about - makes her want to throw up, worse than when she has withdrawal symptoms after refusing to take her medications. She can’t do it. She can’t.

So one night, over the meatloaf they helped make together, Betty asks her mother, “Who do you imagine me marrying?”

She almost asks instead, What if I told you I was in love with Veronica Lodge? But something in the tautness of her mother’s jaw, the set of her mouth, tells her that would end in disaster.

As it is, her mother looks up, mid-bite, and Betty knows that she isn’t in the mood for this sort of question anyway. Her gaze is flat.

“Why are you asking me this?” she says, in a tone that warns Betty from speaking any more. “You know I don’t care who you marry, Elizabeth. As long as it’s someone good.”

By someone good, of course, she means someone who isn’t Jason Blossom. But Betty doesn’t dare say that.

“Why are you worried about it?” says Mother, and gives her a hard look. “Are you considering marrying someone who isn’t good?”

That depends on your definition of good, thinks Betty, but she is absolutely certain Veronica is good; she just isn’t sure Mother would agree. Instead of saying so, though, she just shakes her head and continues eating.

But she goes to bed with her head spinning that night and hardly sleeps. Would Mother approve? Would she? After school that day, she goes straight to Veronica’s without stopping at home. Mother might be mad, but this is more important.

“Why are you afraid?” Veronica asks her gently, later that night. Betty buries her face in her sweet-smelling hair and doesn’t answer. “Is it because you don’t want people thinking you’re gay?”

Betty shakes her head. She’s thought about this a lot already, and whatever people think about her, she doesn’t care. Well, that isn’t entirely true, but she doesn’t mind if they think she’s gay because she’s with Veronica. Veronica is worth it.

“Are you gay?” asks Veronica after a long moment.

The question takes her by surprise. Is she? She's thought about that, too, on nights when she couldn't sleep, and she'd thought she had a crush on Archie but then she hadn't been in love with him, Veronica is the first person she's ever really been in love with, right? And -

Veronica must feel the way Betty stiffens, because she draws back and looks at her seriously, one hand on Betty’s waist - a gentle, reassuring touch. “You don't have to answer if you don't want to,” she says. “I was just curious. If you knew.”

Betty nods and squeezes Veronica’s other hand tight.

At school, it turns out they don't have to worry about coming out, because, bit by bit, their friends start to notice. Cheryl approaches Betty first. In the shadow of the locker room, just the two of them, she takes Betty aside. “You and Lodge, huh?” she says with a conspiratorial smile. When Betty blushes, Cheryl smirks. “Just make sure you don't let it become a distraction,” she says. “If you two start using practice time for makeout time, you're off the lineup.” Better than it could have been, Betty supposes.

At lunch, Archie keeps eyeing the two girls in with an odd expression. Finally, at the end of March, Betty decides to bite the bullet and corner him after football practice. She forces herself to wait for him at the edge of the field, despite how her stomach tumbles and turns and her head rings with sheer nervousness. She should have taken some Adderall before coming here. That's what Mother would have said anyway.

At last he appears, hair tousled, uniform clinging to his skin. She studies him and considers that any other girl would be excited over the way he looks right now. Maybe Veronica was right, she really is gay.

“Hey, Betty,” he greets her, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “What's up?”

Betty crosses her arms and raises her chin. “Me and Veronica are dating,” she says.

Archie looks mildly surprised. “Oh,” he says. “All right, that's fine, I sort of thought you might be - Are you crying?”

Betty sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. “No,” she says. “It's just really humid out here. What about you and Jughead?”

A guilty look crosses Archie’s face. “What do you mean, what about me and Jughead?” he stammers. “I don't know what you're - I mean, we aren't dating - come on, Betty, you know I'm not gay, ah, not that there's anything wrong with being gay but - ”

Betty just smirks. “Sure you aren't,” she says, and leaves him spluttering at the edge of the field. Secretly, she's so relieved that he's okay with it, it hurts. Though she didn't expect to cry over it - seriously, what was that about? She tries not to think about it.

She goes to the Pembroke that evening as usual. Today she's almost singing as she steps up to the door. She has so much to tell Veronica. Are Archie and Jughead really into each other? And what about Mrs. Lodge? Only it isn't Veronica who opens the door, but her mother.

“Oh,” stammers Betty. “I'm here for - ”

“Betty!” says Mrs. Lodge, and ushers her in. “What a nice surprise! Don't worry; I know. You're here for your girlfriend, aren't you?” Betty’s speechless. Mrs. Lodge laughs. “You didn't really think a mother wouldn't figure it out, did you?” she says, not unkindly.

Betty is silent. Mother, she thinks, and looks away, at the vast, expensive ceilings, chewing her lip. Mother doesn't know. Does she?

“Betty,” says Veronica from behind her, and Betty turns and there she is, and just seeing her face, hearing her voice, makes her instantly calm. She turns and automatically leans into her embrace, and then Veronica draws back and looks at her. She says, urgently, “Betty, are you all right?”

She's anxious. Betty can tell. “I'm fine,” she assures her, even though she's starting to get nervous again, just seeing how upset Veronica looks. “Why? What's wrong?” Is it Mother? she thinks, and her gut twists.

“Archie says you were crying,” Veronica tells her, and glances over Betty's shoulder, at her mother, who hovers at the edge of the room, then back at Betty. Softly, she asks, “Can we talk? Please?”

Betty's knees almost go weak with relief. So that's all it is. “Okay,” she says, and follows Veronica into her bedroom.

They sit together on the bed and Betty takes the opportunity to study Veronica. Even when she's worried, she's beautiful. In the past few months, Betty thinks she's only gotten prettier; her hair has grown out a bit, so it hangs in an uneven dark cloud around her shoulders, and Betty wants to reach out and comb her fingers through it. It worries her, though, to see the bags under Veronica’s eyes. Her heart quickens. What could be so bad that Veronica's losing sleep over it?

After a long moment, Veronica lets out a slow breath.

“It isn't Archie I'm worried about,” she said, looking at Betty. “It's you.”

Betty doesn't understand. Why would Veronica be worried about her?

“Why were you crying?” Veronica says, and all at once Betty understands.

She thinks she does, anyway. Veronica is worried about what she'd said at the start - that she'd end up hurt. That she wouldn't tell Veronica. Well, that hasn't happened, thinks Betty. And it won't.

She focuses on the fresh vase of lilies in the window and says, “It's fine. It really is.”

“No. Why?” says Veronica, and Betty looks at her, surprised at how strong her voice is. “Please, Betts. I need to know.”

Why? Betty isn't sure either. She had been afraid that Archie wouldn't be okay with them, yes, but that isn't it. It was -

And then she realizes. The thing that kept her up all night. Mother.

Thinking back to their conversation yesterday makes her want to cry all over again. Mother really wouldn't approve, would she? She's traditional. She would want Betty to marry a solid, dependable man, like Hal - even though she wasn't living with Hal any longer. But Betty knew. That was what perfect daughters were supposed to do. Have the perfect marriage to the perfect man - it wasn't Alice’s fault Hal had turned out to be no good for her.

Betty doesn't realize that tears are welling in her eyes until Veronica reaches up to wipe them away.

She goes home that night without ever telling Veronica the truth. Veronica just holds her while she cries, and then, heavy with guilt and shame and anguish, Betty crawls back to her own bed and lies on top of the sheets, staring at nothing. She can't sleep this night either.

In the morning, she wakes to a barrage of texts from Veronica. Are you okay? says one, and, What's wrong? Please tell me. I'm worried, Betty.

She smiles a little at that. Veronica would be. She picks up her phone and turns over, writing back:

I'll tell you at practice. I promise, it's really okay. I love you.

She waits twenty-four minutes, and then Veronica writes back. Okay, she says. I love you too, she adds.

Betty stares at the screen, then sighs and turns it off. She can tell when Veronica isn't really okay at all. Her texts do nothing to hide that.

At practice, Veronica waits for her. Her bags are even darker than yesterday, and Betty feels helpless and angry at the same time, seeing that. Helpless that she can't do better. Angry at herself for making Veronica worry.

But it's all right, isn't it? When Betty worries too.

“Hey,” says Veronica tiredly, and Betty pulls her into a brief, tight hug. “Ready to tell me what's bothering you?”

Betty exhales. “It's not a big deal,” she says, reaching up to brush hair back from Veronica's face. “It's just - ”

“Just?” Veronica prompts.

Betty bites her lip. “Just my mother,” she says at last. “I'm...worried about her. Whether she'll like you enough.”

For the first time, Veronica breaks into a smile. “That's all?” she says. “We can talk to her after practice, then. I'll go with you.”

Betty feels frustration tightening her chest. “No,” she says. “That's not all. This is a big deal to me, Veronica. I don't know if she likes you - if she likes you dating me or not.”

Veronica's smile flickers. “I thought you said it wasn't a big deal,” she says. When Betty doesn't answer, she sighs. “Are you fine with me talking to her tonight?”

What choice does Betty have? “Yes,” she says, and gives Veronica her best smile when she positively beams at her. As she watches her go, though, dread fills her stomach, replacing the frustration, making it heavy.

She has a bad feeling about this.

\--

That evening, after school, she heads to the Pembroke as usual. But no one answers her knocks. Perplexed, Betty sends Veronica a text. Where are you? she asks, and, Are you all right? But Veronica doesn’t get her texts either. For the first time, panic curls in her stomach.

Finally, she gives up and goes home. Today has been an unseasonably cold day and for all that Betty hates leaving, for all that Veronica’s become more home to her than her own house, the chill has begun to bite into her bones. She feels as though it would only upset Veronica if she caught a cold.

At home, shivering, she opens the door by herself, lets herself in. 111 Elm Street is magnificently gloomy at night, with no lights on inside. Where did Mother go? Betty wonders, and drops her bag and keys in the kitchen. Maybe she can make herself a snack before Mother gets back. Call Veronica.

From the dining room, a chair creaks, and Betty freezes.

She reaches behind her, on the counter, for a knife, but too late. Someone has already appeared in the doorway.

“Betty,” says her mother, unmistakably her mother’s voice. But Betty doesn’t relax. Something’s wrong. “You’re home early, aren’t you?”

Her mother’s voice is soft, but something brittle hides behind the facade. Either she is afraid, or very, very angry.

“No.” Betty moves to turn on the light. Practice ended at four. It’s six now. Mother knows that. What is she talking about?

She reaches the light switch, turns it on. In the yellow light that suddenly floods the room, her mother’s face is flat, and almost haggard. Her blonde hair is disheveled. A glass of wine, the rim smudged with red lipstick, is in her hand. Her grip is unsteady.

“I see,” she says, without moving. “I just thought you’d be over at the Lodge girl’s place by now.”

Something icy strikes Betty like a blow to the back of her head. Veronica. Her mother’s been thinking of her. What does she know? Does she expect?

Mother makes a gesture with her wineglass. “Come,” she says, and now Betty recognizes the unnatural monotone, the artificial flatness in her voice. She’s drunk. “Sit with me, please, Elizabeth.”

Betty does. She has no other choice. She barely hears the sound of her own footsteps, and doesn’t notice when her mother takes off her sweater and drapes it over the back of a chair; her head is roaring. What will she do? What has she already done to Veronica?

They sit at the dining table, and for a long moment no one says anything. Betty looks at the conspicuously empty seat to the right of her mother’s; if Alice notices, she says nothing. Staring steadfastly at her daughter, she finally takes a swig of her wine, then puts it down again and leans forward, fixing her with a piercing gaze.

“Veronica was here today,” she says. “She told me some things about you.”

What could Veronica have said that would possibly get Mother like this? Betty wonders.

“She says that you’re very good friends,” Mother continues. “She says she adores you. And - ” she pauses to take another sip of wine - “she says she’d like my blessing to be in a relationship with you.”

Betty just stares.

Her mother laughs - a short, sharp bark that sounds nothing like laughter should. “Of course I told her no,” she says. “I won’t let my baby be blemished by someone like that. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”

Without waiting for a reply, Mother continues, “I’m sure it isn’t a crime in her own mind, of course. She probably really believes you love her. It really is awful when children go around thinking that just because their friend loves them a lot, they can be gay with each other, isn’t it?”

“Mother,” says Betty, “I love her too.”

“Of course you do,” says Alice with a smile. “All girls love each other. It’s a special bond of friendship that we share, don’t you think? A sisterhood that can never be broken. But when you begin to conflate that with the other kind of love, it never works out. Homosexuality just isn’t what good girls want, and a friend should never be tricked into thinking her friend is that kind of woman, just because she’s nice.”

Betty’s head rings. A good girl. A good daughter. If she were good, she wouldn’t be doing this with Veronica.

“Mother - ” she begins.

Mother waves her hand. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ve already told her not to talk to you any more, or else.” She smiles again - a stretching of the mouth with far, far too many teeth in it and red staining her lips, her gums, in stark contrast to the white, white makeup on her cheeks. “If she doesn’t obey, well - I don’t suppose her daddy would be happy to see her on the same side of the prison walls, would he?”

Betty can’t believe this.

“No,” she finds herself saying without thinking. “No. I can’t let you do that. She’s innocent. She did nothing, Mother. She didn’t hurt me.”

Mother’s smile disappears.

“Are you saying you want her to keep talking to you, Betty?” she says. “Do you like hearing what I’m telling you now? Do you want to be that way? Do you want your friends at school to find out?”

“Mother - ”

“What about Archie?” she asks. “What about your father?”

No, Betty thinks desperately, Archie knows already and doesn’t mind, does he? But the way he’d said, there’s nothing wrong with that, as though he felt guilty - And her mother hasn’t spoken to Hal in months. She knows that. But would her mother break her silence for this? Just for this?

Her mother’s eyes have gone flat. Reaching behind her, she lifts up the sweater Betty had been wearing earlier - Veronica’s favorite. She says, “I’ve been smelling your clothes before I wash them, Elizabeth. I know where you’ve been. What you’ve been doing. I can still smell her on this.”

Betty gapes at her.

“I’ll tell everyone,” says her mother. “I’ll tell them. Don’t think I won’t.”

No, thinks Betty, no, people wouldn’t hate her for this. They’d still trust her.

Would they?

“You’re still under the age for consensual sex, you know,” says Mother.

Mother can smell her fear, too, like a shark in bloody waters. She smiles.

“Good girl,” she says, and drops the sweater on the floor. “Now go to your room. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

Betty rises. Her body does not feel like her own any more. She feels like a doll with strings attached, and the strings are held by her mother - her own mother, threatening her with hurting the person she loves most. Either her mother will hurt Veronica, or Betty will. Because it’s her own fault she wasn’t more careful. Her fault she let things get this way.

Her fault, she tells herself, over and over again. Her fault, as she opens the bottle of Adderall and takes a dose, not bothering to find a glass of water to take with it. Her fault, as she curls up on the bed, no energy left, and drifts away, alone in the confines of her room, with no one left to stop her from hurting this time.

\--

The next morning, her phone is silent.

At school, Veronica is nowhere to be found.

Betty asks Archie and Jughead about her. Then Kevin. Then - yes - even Cheryl.

But no one knows where she has gone.

\--

It takes a long, long time for Betty to be okay with Veronica being gone. Not to accept it, because no matter how hard she tries, she finds herself crying when she’s alone, at night, or in the bathroom, or outside, walking home from school without Veronica walking with her. On graduation day, she buys a bouquet of lilies - burgundy tiger lilies - and leaves them on her bedroom windowsill. A few days later, she throws them out. They would have done no good anyway. She doesn’t know where to send them.

She tries calling Veronica’s number, a handful of times. No one ever answers. She doesn’t try texting her; she know they won’t be delivered. Instead, on nights when the hole inside herself is big enough to fill with an entire sea, she writes what she would have sent to Veronica and then waits without sending them, smiling to herself, pretending Veronica will write back. She tells her how she got accepted to Columbia in New York, not far from Veronica’s old home. How Polly’s babies are growing up healthy and strong, and, despite appearances, Cheryl Blossom is more than capable as a babysitter. How her mother and father finally got a divorce.

Mother. It’s hard for Betty to think about her, because Mother is the one who’s raised her all these years, and she trusts her more than she trusts Dad, anyway. She’s been angry at her before, yes. But this is different.

It takes time and space for her to recognize that what Mother’s done, this time, isn’t just what any concerned parent would do, any parent who wants their child to be well-loved and well-cared for. Sure, Betty tells herself, Mother has a different attitude about girls marrying girls. She thought she was doing the right thing. She did.

But ever since that night, a rift has slowly been growing between the two of them. Betty is dimly aware of it; when she thinks of her mother now, she inevitably grits her teeth. When she thinks back to that night, it’s hard to think of the woman she sat across from at the dining table as her mother. They seem separate, somehow.

She distracts herself with homework. Drafting papers and problems of force in the mechanical engineering systems she’s studying to build. But late at night, when she’s spent, she takes the time to write another letter to Veronica and never send it, and this time, she starts talking about Mother. How unfair she is. No, how cruel. How could she not see how good Veronica is? How can she hate her when Betty loves her this much? It isn’t about being gay, she thinks, and tears well up in her eyes and she can’t see, and when she wipes them away and looks again she’s accidentally sent the text. Dammit, she thinks, and turns the phone off and shoves it under her bed.

In the morning, exhausted, she decides to forget about it. But she can’t. It haunts her through her classes that day, through every lecture and discussion session, and by the end of it, she has realized something. Any parent who truly loves their child would never punish them for loving someone else.

It doesn’t matter how her mother thinks about gay people. It only matters that she used Betty, she thinks, she used her and her weakness - Veronica - to get leverage, and now she’s exactly where she wants to be, isn’t she? Alice Cooper thinks she’s won.

Well, Betty thinks savagely, no more. Only the perfect mother deserves a perfect daughter, and no matter what might be said about Betty, Alice is far from perfect.

That night, she flushes her Adderall down the toilet. Then she starts looking up tickets to Riverdale, Ohio.

\--

As it turns out, the earliest time Betty can go home is in the summer, so, with one year of college left, she packs her bags at the end of term, then sits on the empty bed of her dorm room, waiting for the taxi to arrive. The only thing she’s leaving behind is a bouquet of lilies she bought that morning. It’s become a ritual of hers, alongside the texts she never sends. Not that Veronica will ever see them.

She hasn’t told Mother she’s coming home. Of course she hasn’t. Mother wouldn’t expect her to, anyway: their phone calls are brief and terse, and Betty suspects she knows how Betty is beginning to feel. Who wouldn’t?

Nevertheless, when she arrives on the doorstep of her old family home, her mother is barefoot, still in that morning’s silk pajamas, and caught by surprise. She gapes for a moment, then tries a smile instead. “Betty,” she says, her warm tone almost enough to mask the shock in her voice. “How nice to see you! I didn’t know you’d be coming home this summer - I, I thought - ”

“Let me in,” says Betty coldly.

Her mother’s face snaps shut.

“Let me in,” Betty repeats. She lifts her bags. “I have a lot to carry.”

“This is about that Lodge girl, isn’t it,” she says quietly, and it isn’t a question, it’s a statement. “I told you to forget her, Elizabeth. I told you she wasn’t good for you.”

Something is different about Mother. She’s angry, yes, Betty can sense her cold fury simmering under the surface. But she’s pleading, too. She missed Betty, she realizes.

Betty shoulders wordlessly past her mother and makes for her bedroom. She wants to see if her mother has changed anything.

Thankfully, she hasn’t. And whatever compassion kept her from turning Betty out at the door keeps her from bringing Veronica up again.

She thought she’d find closure by sleeping in her bed again. She doesn’t. All it reminds her of is sleepy fall nights when she’d talk to Veronica on the phone instead of going to sleep, and cool winter mornings where she thought only of seeing her at school, and long afternoons in the springtime that they’d spent together, on Veronica’s bed, not saying much, relaxing in the silence and the comfort of each other.

She rises early that morning and goes to slip on her sweater before heading out. Only the spot where that used to be, in her closet, is empty. It’s missing.

Betty grits her teeth. Of course her mother would have thrown that away.

She wanders down the streets. Everything is the same, yet foreign to her. Without Veronica, it seems hollow. Empty.

Without thinking, she finds herself wandering to the Pembroke. The apartments frown down at her, tall and grand. She goes to apartment 330 and raises one hand, then lets it fall back to her side. Of course Veronica doesn’t live here any more.

She goes back home without bothering to look for a job, like she’d promised herself she would. Only when she arrives, Mother is already standing in the doorway, looking agitated.

“Mother - ” Betty makes to move around her. Alice doesn’t move. “Please stop.”

“Stop what?” says her mother, but lets her in anyway. She turns to watch Betty as she moves past and doesn’t look away when Betty glances up. Her eyes are wide, her hair tousled, and Betty recognizes this look at once. The night she got drunk. When she took Veronica away from her.

“Have you been drinking again?” Betty studies the table. No wineglass is there. None in the sink either.

Mother drifts behind her to the dining room table. “That girl was here again,” she says, so soft Betty barely hears it. She stiffens.

“What girl?” she says sharply.

“You know the one,” says Mother, and her voice hardens. “The one who tainted you. Who took away your innocence. Oh, my poor little Elizabeth - ” And she moves to take Betty into her arms, to hug her like when she was a little girl and everything was all right. Betty slaps her arm away.

“What did she say?” she says, at once hating and wondering at the brittle command in her voice.

“She said she wants to know where you are,” says Mother, knitting her hands together. “She keeps asking after you, Betty, every week. Every week she comes here. I tell her no, no, every time.” She offers Betty a smile, shy and childlike. It looks obscene on her. “I know you don’t love her, Elizabeth. Not like that. You’re my good daughter. You’re perfect.”

Betty says, “Shut up.”

Her mother takes a step back.

“Shut up,” says Betty again, taking a step toward her. “I’m not your perfect daughter. I’m not your anything, Mother.”

Her mother has backed up to the table now. She stumbles and puts her hands out behind her to catch herself, and her knuckles turn as white as the tablecloth.

“You don’t know what happened,” says Betty, advancing on her. “Just like you didn’t know with Polly. You thought Jason didn’t love her, you thought you were protecting her by cutting her out, but you were wrong. And - ” she draws a shaky breath - “you were wrong again. With me. With Veronica.”

Her mother returns her steady gaze, speechless.

“I love her,” says Betty.

Mother is frozen a moment longer. Then the spell on her breaks. She puts a hand over her mouth, and then she turns and runs, into the back of the house, where she can be safe, hidden from things she doesn’t want to hear. Betty doesn’t follow her.

\--

In the morning, she goes to visit the Pembroke again. First, though, she stops by the florist to buy lilies - burgundy tiger lilies, the same kind she bought for Veronica the first time, on their first date.

She expects the long drive in front of the Pembroke to be empty, as usual. But when she gets there, someone else has already gotten to the apartment ahead of her. A girl, she thinks, dressed darkly, in a long coat despite the weather. Something flickers within Betty, half-hope, half-memory, and she clutches the lilies tightly. Stop thinking that, she tells herself. It isn’t true.

Then the figure turns and says, “Betty?”

Betty has dreamed a thousand, a million times of somehow, against every odd, finding Veronica again, but in her dreams, she is calm, composed. This is different. A sob rises in her chest, and then she drops her lilies and is running, afraid that if she doesn’t reach her now, she’ll fade away and dissipate in the summer breeze, like smoke, like every dream she’s had until now.

But Veronica doesn’t disappear. She is there, and she is real and solid and as Betty reaches her and doesn’t hesitate, grabs her and holds her so tight she’s afraid she might be hurting her, she says her name again and turns her face into Betty’s shoulder, fingers stroking her hair, just like she always used to. Veronica is crying, too. They stand there without moving for a moment and the relief and pain and love is so great that it overwhelms Betty, makes her knees weak.

Wait - maybe she is unhappy, thinks Betty, maybe she’s waiting for me to apologize. That I didn’t try harder. To stop Mother.

She draws back and looks at Veronica - drinks her in, the night sky of her eyes and her soft mouth and strong dark brows, oh how strange it feels to see her again - and there’s nothing in Veronica’s face but love. Veronica reaches up to touch a strand of Betty’s hair, brushes it away from her face. Softly, she says, “I missed you.”

Betty shakes her head. Another sob is rising in her, choking her throat. She doesn’t want to speak. She can’t speak. She doesn’t know what to say.

I’m sorry, she wants to say, and, I missed you too. I never wanted to leave you. I’m sorry.

"How did you find me?" she says instead.

Veronica shrugs, "Luck?" she says. "I just had a feeling you'd be here today."

Betty doesn't understand.

“I got your text, you know,” says Veronica, looking seriously into Betty’s eyes. At that, Betty freezes. What text? Veronica’s phone was off.

“But - ” she says, then stops. Veronica is smiling now.

Wait. That text she accidentally sent in college -

Veronica says, “Here, let me show you.” She reaches into her purse with one hand - not letting go with the other; Betty clutches that hand like a lifeline - and pulls out her phone. And there, on the screen, is the text Betty wrote, that she never meant to send. It’s my fault, it reads. I didn’t mean any of this to happen. And, I hate Mother. I hate her. More than once, I love you. I love you and I miss you and I’m sorry that you’re gone. It’s my fault.

Betty’s cheeks heat up. “It’s okay,” Veronica says. “It’s okay, I already know, everything,” and she gathers Betty up and holds her close while she cries, and when it’s over she takes Veronica’s face in both hands and kisses her firmly, and knows that that says more than anything she could have said aloud would say.

They pick up the bouquet of lilies Betty dropped and head back to Elm Street together. Though the sky is clear and sunny - blue as the day she first met Veronica - Betty knows a storm is brewing. Something is about to happen. She knows.

Veronica leads her up the long drive in front of the house, and then they stop on the doorstep, before the familiar red door, gazing out forbiddingly from between the white walls. Betty takes a deep breath before she knocks.

Veronica senses her hesitation. She looks at her.

“Do you want me to do it?” she says, quietly.

No. This is something Betty has to do, alone.

“I’ll be fine,” Betty tells her. When Veronica doesn’t look away, she gives her a smile and squeezes her hand. “Promise.”

“Let me talk to her,” says Veronica.

Betty nods. Of course.

Then she raises her hand to knock.

The door opens and her mother is standing there. “Betty,” she says, and then her gaze flickers to Veronica, standing tall at Betty’s side, her brows straight, her gaze meeting Alice’s. “Oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” says Veronica without budging. “May we come in, please? We’ve got something we’d like to talk about.”

Betty doesn’t miss the subtle emphasis on we, on the way that they’re together, like they always have been, like there was never a gap in between. It makes her blood surge with pride.

“Please,” says Veronica, not breaking her gaze. “It’s very important, Mrs. Cooper.”

Mother remains there for a moment, looking from one to the other. Finally, she says, “Fine.” She steps aside and holds the door open long enough for them both to enter, then shuts it. Betty does not miss the long look she gives Veronica as she passes by.

They move to the dining table and take adjacent seats. Veronica places the bouquet of lilies unhesitatingly in the vase at the center of the table, which has been empty for some time, ever since Betty left. They are a shock of red against the stark white of the cloth. Vibrant in a lifeless room.

Mother says, “What did you want to talk about?” at the same time that Veronica says, “I’d like to marry your daughter.”

Betty is as speechless as Mother is.

Veronica doesn’t waver. But under the table, Betty can feel her shaking, her fingers trembling in Betty’s.

“You can’t do that,” says Mother at last.

Veronica lifts her chin. “Can’t I?” she says. A challenge. “We’re both adults, Alice. If Betty says yes, there’s no stopping her.”

Alice’s face has gone as white as the tablecloth.

“You can’t,” she repeats. “She’s my daughter. And even if not everyone who marries someone of the same sex turns out - mad, and desperate - you’re not good for her. I won’t allow it.”

Veronica looks at Betty.

“She won’t agree to it,” says Alice, noticing Veronica’s glance, turning to Betty too. “She won’t, will you, Elizabeth? She doesn’t love you like that, Veronica. She doesn’t. She’s - she’s in love with Archie.”

Her face is livid now, deep pink to match the lilies that form the centerpiece of their table. The mention of Archie, the boy she thought she’d had a crush on in high school, stirs something in Betty. Something solid and certain.

She turns to face Alice Cooper, the woman who gave birth to her. “Mother,” she says. “I need a moment. To talk to Veronica. Alone.”

“No,” her mother says. She rises from the table, and her face twists with fury. “No. I won’t allow it. Not in my house. Not with my daughter.”

Betty shrugs. “Fine,” she says. “Then we’ll go outside.”

And, without another word, she rises and pulls Veronica with her.

Out in the street, under the elms and the sunshine, Betty takes Veronica by both hands and says, “Yes.”

Veronica blinks. “Yes what?”

“Yes, I’ll marry you,” Betty says. For the first time in twenty-one years, she feels free - really free. “Let’s go back to New York. I’m on scholarship there. I can finish university in one year, and then I can find a job. We can find an apartment to move into. They’re expensive in Manhattan but if you go out a ways - ”

Veronica’s smiling. She takes one of her hands from Betty’s grasp and says, shyly, “We don’t have to worry about that yet, you know.” She reaches up and cups Betty’s cheek in her palm, and Betty reaches up to hold that hand against her skin, the way they used to; she misses the dryness of Veronica’s fingers on her skin, the way their hands fit together, almost perfect. Veronica says, “But I’m not sure. If, you know, you’re okay with your mother. Being...like this.”

She speaks carefully, but Betty knows the thinly veiled hurt behind every word. She sees it in her face.

She draws Veronica close and says, “I don’t give a fuck what my mother thinks,” and then she kisses her, and Veronica kisses back.

They stand there like that for a while, soaking in the sunshine beneath the elms. And when they leave, they don’t turn back.

\--

They return to Betty’s house only once, to get her things. Betty goes alone, because Veronica is afraid her mother will be angry at her daughter if Veronica comes, too. But Betty was being honest when she said she didn’t care.

Thankfully, her mother isn’t home when Betty visits. She collects her bags without a hitch, and when she gets to the curb, Veronica is waiting inside her car, the engine idling, trunk already open.

They put the suitcases in together, in silence. Usually, Betty would be comfortable with this - they don’t need to talk to each other to know what each is thinking - but today, Veronica is itching to tell her something. She can tell. And when they’ve put the last piece of luggage in, Veronica turns to her and says, “There’s something I need to give you.”

She’s biting her lip, but she isn’t anxious. There’s a sparkle in her eye that Betty hasn’t seen before. Veronica has been getting more confident lately, about them, about kissing and holding hands in public, and Betty loves it, how different it is from the beginning, when they were still uncertain, still shy. She still catches herself hesitating before a kiss, now, but she’s learning, slowly, to be free. But the way Veronica loves her makes her less shy, more brave, with every passing day. About time, Betty thinks, considering they’re now fiancees.

Veronica is still watching her with that look. Genuinely curious, Betty asks, “What did you want to give me?”

“This,” says Veronica, and holds out a box, square and done in black velvet, small enough to fit in her palm. Betty’s eyes go wide, and Veronica smiles and says, “Wait till you see what’s inside.”

Betty watches as she opens it. Inside, the ring gazes up at her from the black velvet backing, a bright white star in a night sky. Her night sky, Betty is reminded.

“Elizabeth Lily Cooper,” says Veronica. “Will you marry me?”

For all that she feels like she’s about to cry, all over again, Betty quirks a smile. “Making it official, are you?” she says, and takes Veronica’s hand so both their palms are cupped over the ring. “You already know the answer.”

“Just say it,” Veronica insists, and neither of them can help grinning.

“Yes,” says Betty, “yes. You know that. Forever and always.”

They drive to Archie’s that night with Veronica asleep on Betty’s shoulder, holding Betty’s left hand. The ring winks between her fingers, and Betty smiles and shakes her head a little. She’ll worry about how much it costs later. For now, the steady rhythm of Veronica’s soft breathing, more than filling up the silence of the car, makes everything right again.

The wedding itself is an intimate, personal affair. Jughead and Archie are both the best man (“We’re really not dating,” Archie insists, and Jughead just smiles and puts his head on Archie’s shoulder). Polly, of course, is the maid of honor. She looks radiant in a dress of lily-green organza. Cheryl stands next to her with the rest of the bridesmaids. (“The cheerleading squad lost something when you left, Betty, I’ll give you that,” says Cheryl, a little gruffly. That’s the closest Betty will ever get to a compliment from the school’s old ice princess, now a lawyer, Betty supposes.)

Betty doesn’t know what dress Veronica has picked out until she leads her into the green room with her hands over her eyes. When she does look, she nearly takes a step back.

“This dress - ” She looks at Veronica uncertainly. “This is the one from the bridal store in the mall, isn’t it?”

Veronica nods. “It wasn’t there when I got here, though,” she says. “So I had to fly back to New York to look for it. It was a Vera Wang original. I had to commission a new one.” She steps back, chewing her lip; Betty can tell, she’s nervous. “I made some changes. I hope you don’t mind them.”

Veronica is right. Down the front spills hundreds of tiny blue flowers - forget-me-nots. Betty can’t help but marvel at how beautiful they look.

Veronica watches her, uncertain. “Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” says Betty, and turns to look at her. “I can’t believe you knew I wanted to wear this.”

Veronica smiles. “I couldn’t miss the way you always looked at it,” she says. Then she turns and reaches into the closet. “I asked them to commission one for me, too,” and Betty gasps, because this dress is the perfect complement: a little longer, with a gracefully flared hem, studded with tiny white flowers at the bottom and ribbons of deep blue silk.

Veronica looks stunning that day. Of course she does; she’d look stunning in anything.

And when they kiss - not their first, not their last, but nonetheless Betty loves it, the familiar taste of Veronica’s mouth mixing with the scent of the lilies around the altar - she decides that her last day with her mother was not the end, but the beginning of everything, of her life the way she wants it to be, not perfect, but good. Because she would never settle for anything less.

That night, as they lie together on the new bed Cheryl has gifted them, Veronica’s fingers working through Betty’s sweaty, tousled hair, she says quietly, “Do you regret anything?”

Betty thinks about this for a moment. Then she twists to look down at Veronica. She looks beautiful in the moonlight, starlight reflected in her dark eyes, the soft curves of her bare skin.

“Yes,” she says. “I do. I regret not having run away sooner.”

Veronica smiles at that. Betty leans over to kiss her smile, gentle and soft. Then she lies back on the mattress and settles into her lover’s embrace, staring into the darkness, into the endless night sky that stretches out before them, two souls alone in the boundless world, before the future that waits, forever.


End file.
